


Scion of Kings

by Umeko



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:35:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24975460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umeko/pseuds/Umeko
Summary: What is the truth behind Gil-galad's parentage? How the Scion of Kings came to be.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 41





	1. Scion of Kings

**Author's Note:**

> Another Gil-Galad origin story for this fandom. This theory has probably been around a bit, but I hope I can do it justice.

_Second Age 3441, Barad-dur_

Watching one’s close friend get burned to a crisp was not pleasant. Yet Elrond could not help feeling a slight tinge of relief. It was better for Gil-galad to end his life that way instead of the alternative of having to be laid out for a pyre. _He_ would have hated it.

 _Less awkward questions too,_ Elrond thought grimly as he clambered over a pile of corpses towards his liege’s rapidly disintegrating remains.

* * *

_First Age, Falas_

Cirdan watched the ellyn at their training as he often did. There was someone new among the familiar faces. It was not rare for refugees to flee from the east with the growing power of Morgoth. However, this ellon was different. The newcomer’s eyes were too bright for one born on this side of the Sea. He was taller than most of his companions. Of Noldor stock, most likely born in the blessed lands. A spirited one, Cirdan studied him with interest as he ducked and parried his opponent’s blows, landing a few sound ones on his own.

Finally, Cirdan called out to the elf when his latest bout ended, hailing him over with a tankard of ale.

“What’s your name, young one?” Cirdan grinned. There are few left on this side of the Sea who could match him in years.

“Gil-galad,” the elf replied defiantly with a thrust of his chin. He took the tankard offered with a nod of thanks and gulped thirstily. Cirdan chuckled. _So be it. Who was he to judge?_

* * *

_Years of the Trees, Tirion on Tuna_

“Why can’t you be more like your sister?”

He had fled the room with his mother’s rebuke still ringing in his ears. She was almost in tears. He really did not mean to make her mad. First his eldest brother had been oh-so difficult at breakfast. His baby brother had grown exceptionally fussy as his teeth grew in, making nursing difficult. Amil was so overwhelmed as it was. To cap things off, his favourite brother had been injured, thanks to him. The branch had seemed sound. How was he to know it would break under his brother’s weight?

If only he had stayed indoors obediently to read or work on a tapestry like his sister did instead of sneaking out to fly a kite. Kano would not have been up that tree trying to retrieve it in the first place. Or he could have climbed the tree himself, but his elder brother had insisted…

He cried into his pillows, hating himself for his weakness. Someone was tap-tapping on his bedroom door. He shouted something rude in reply, even half-muffled by his pillow.

“It’s me - Kano.”

He wiped his tears away, hiccupped an apology and unlatched the door. His brother’s arm was still in a sling, making it hard for him to push open the heavy door. 

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“Don’t tell anyone else I sneaked out. Shouldn’t you be at the recital?

“I am not going to that recital as I don’t have anything to wear.”

“You turned the new dress Amme had made for you into that kite… It was a nice dress…”

“It was a stupid dress. I hate it. Besides, it is only goody-goody Findis’ mandolin recital and she is not that good at it…”

They sat on his bed talking. He laughed at an exceptionally naughty joke Kano picked up from the stables about the stable-master and a bad-tempered ass.

“I like you better this way, when you are smiling,” Kano replied and ruffled his hair.

“Can you teach me to climb a tree?”

“Well… do we have anything you can wear for that?” Kano cast his eyes at his open closet with its neatly hung contents interspersed with soft tissues and scented satchels.

“You can lend me your old pants…”

* * *

He hated his body as he grew into maturity. He felt it was just wrong. What he wanted, what was expected of him by his family… Sometimes he just felt like screaming in frustration, but it would not do.

“No! No! Small steps, smaller,” the stern matron tasked with their deportment lessons chided. With a roll of his eyes that did not go unnoticed by his tutor, he shortened his steps into a dainty mince. He wanted to run and climb, ride astride his horse at a gallop instead of balanced precariously side-saddle at a stately amble. He hated the pinched-waisted dresses that were so fashionable at court and the way they drew attention to his chest for all the wrong reasons.

He knew about the ‘flowers’ from eavesdropping on the grown-ups. On those thankfully rare days, his sister would plead illness and keep to her rooms. Amme would change from her favoured white gowns to dark-coloured ones so stains would not show so readily as she carried out her royal duties. It should not happen to him, but it did. More mortifying was the talk Amme had with him once he had calmed down from the shock of waking up with his sheets bloodied. 

It seemed that as far as the whole of Arda was concerned, Irime Lalwen Finwiel was a nis, destined to be married to a worthy husband and pop out grandchildren for her loving parents to dote on.

* * *

“Does it fit?” Nerdanel cast a critical eye over her work. As Kano grew broad of shoulder in his adulthood, it was no longer so easy for him to use his brother’s castoff garments. Needlework was never his strong suit. Thankfully, Nerdanel was as deft with a needle as with a chisel and did not question why her law-sister would go about the city dressed in male garments. Perhaps being Feanaro’s spouse, she had seen stranger things.

Young Maitimo wailed from his cradle. With a weary sigh, Nerdanel scooped him into her arms and started nursing his nephew. Nerdanel was at ease with her hroa – muscular arms, milk-swollen breasts and too many freckles, in a way he could never be with his. The shape of his body had always felt wrong to him and increasingly so as he grow into his majority. 

“If you want, you can change the shape of your body. I can add some padding about the waist and something to bind your breasts,” she added nonchalantly. He nodded.

It was tiring, acting the dutiful daughter and princess in front of his parents, then sneaking out to be himself. Kano knew about his excursions to the taverns and rougher parts of the city. His brother accompanied him whenever he could, until his responsibilities to his own growing family grew too much. Nerdanel might have tasked her sons to look out for him too when they were older. Or perhaps the Feanorions frequented the same taverns he did. He had gotten into brawls. He had been badly injured once, enough for Maitimo to send for a royal healer. He then swore straight-faced before his grandparents it was a freak riding accident involving a cart of farming tools.

* * *

Pious Findis, the perfect daughter and princess, failed to deliver on marriage and grandchildren, much to their royal father’s chagrin. Instead, she chose to dedicate her immortal life to serving the Valie Este. For their mother, having a daughter serve the Valar was an honour, even if such must forgo family.

“What is wrong with Lord Ohtar? This is the sixth proposal you turned down this month.”

“I just don’t feel for him at all, or any of the others.”

“You seemed to like him enough at dinner…”

“Only for his conversation, not as a husband! Look, I just don’t want the entire marriage and elflings deal.”

“So which Valar will you be serving?”

“You just don’t get it, don’t you?” He tore the ornaments from his hair and cast them onto the floor. “I suggest you close the door as I am going to tear this infernal dress off me right now!”

“Lalwen, I think we need to talk,” Prince Nolofinwe Arakano shut the door behind him discreetly, averting his gaze as he yanked the offending dress to his ankles. “What exactly is wrong?”

“Everything that’s what! This hroa is wrong. I don’t feel like doing any of the things other ladies do.”

“I don’t see how being female stops you from doing things… I mean, Nerdanel does sculpting… I hear from Rumil there are female hunters who ride with Lord Orome…”

“You still don’t get it. I don’t feel female…”

“Oh dear, I wonder if Lorien can help fix that…”

Nolofinwe’s words were cut off by a hard shove that sent him stumbling out into the arms of a gawking guardsman. It was not every day one glimpsed a princess in her undergarments.

His nieces Aredhel and Artanis were without a doubt comfortable with their hroar as they grew. Aredhel had no issues with her body even as she rode astride her horse and raced her cousins. She preferred hunting and archery to embroidery and music, but never felt as ill at ease in dresses as he did. Artanis delighted in using her feminine charms when she grew into them. Many a poor courtier found his heart broken, however gently, by his young niece. 

Kano was there for him as much as he was able between his responsibilities, the supportive big brother even though he did not understand what troubled him so much.

Then the ice-bear happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sort of had this idea after watching a documentary where a historical general’s remains were exhumed, and everyone is scratching their heads because the bones were strongly suggestive of a female. We have someone whose life (and death) was well documented by historians and they might have gotten it wrong.
> 
> Apparently, this is not a new thing with occupants of multiple ancient warrior graves being assumed as male until someone takes another look at the remains or starts translating ancient text at the site. And it is like ‘the General bore the Emperor a son’?
> 
> Gil-galad’s origins are murky enough in Tolkien canon, Second Age histories indicate a male, but what if they were wrong?


	2. In Beleriand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nolofinwe still does not get it.

Everything went bad far faster than anyone could imagine. On hindsight, trouble had been brewing well before that attack on Formenos and the Darkening, only they had been too blind to see it. Letting Feanaro ride ahead to Aqualonde was a miscalculation. In his grief and self-righteous anger, Feanaro ruined any chance they might have had of winning the cooperation of King Olwe’s people. Then to cap things off, the ships burned right after the House of Feanaro and their staunchest supporters crossed. They should, could have, turned back to Tirion, thrown themselves on the mercy of the Valar as Arafinwe had done. Instead Nolofinwe Arakano had pushed onwards.

It was not only his loyalty to Kano that bade him remain. Irime could not bear the thought of returning to the White City of Tirion, to be with his mother as a dutiful daughter was expected to be. They trudged over the hellish ice, towards that distant shore. They lost so many to the unforgiving cold, the treacherous ice and the fearsome creatures that lived on it in their march. The ice-bear was one of those that stalked their host, picking off the stragglers, weak and unwary.

It was shortly after Elenwe fell through the ice. Turukano was grief-stricken and not as watchful as he should have been. A bewildered Itarille had asked for her mother, not quite understanding what happened for she was still so young. She had run off from the main body of the host, seeking her mother. An elfling alone was easy prey for an ice-bear.

He had spotted the danger before anyone else did and seized a spear from a soldier nearby who was already half-frozen with cold and weariness. The elf had simply collapsed into the snow never to rise again. Perhaps the spear had been all that was tethering him to life, but Irime was beyond caring about that. With a roar of battle fury, he sprinted and leapt before the beast, shielding his grandniece from the snapping jaws and slashing claws.

He never understood how he did it. Perhaps Lord Tulkas had not fully abandoned them yet. He was left bloodied and wearied, but the ice-bear lay dead before him and Itarille was unscathed though frightened. Kano had fussed over him, much to his annoyance. Recovering from his many wounds was hard, and they had to keep moving. Kano had his sons and nephews fashion a litter to bear him until he was able to walk again. He even given him his own blankets so he would not freeze. Kano had never fussed over him so much before.

“Irime, I don’t want you to do anything like that again!” Kano all but commanded and he could only nod between the cold and pain.

* * *

Beleriand was a hard place. He could have, should have gone with his nephew, Kano’s youngest, named for his father. Young Arakano had been so brave. Instead he had remained behind with his brother while his nephew went ahead of the host and was slain in battle. Tulkas had not intervened enough.

Feanaro, their poor mad eldest brother was dead. His eldest captive. Manwe intervened on behalf of valiant Findekano and ill-fated Maitimo. Makalaure was ill-suited to be a leader and more than happy to return the crown to his brother as soon as it was clear to all he would live. Maitimo, now marred and renamed Maedhros, relinquished it to his uncle.

He had expected that he would be spared all the mindless duties expected of him as a princess. Alas, he found it was not to be. There were elves in Beleriand – the Sindar and other tribes who had remained behind on the Hither Shores. There was a king – Elu Thingol and his court, and other lesser lords besides. As High King of the Noldor in Exile, it was expected that his wife or the most senior female in his House act as his hostess. Anaire had remained behind in Aman. Had she not and survived the Ice, she would have ruled at her husband’s side as his queen. Instead it was Irime who was seated beside his brother at many formal banquets, richly attired as any court lady in Tirion and hating every minute of it.

Wild-child Irisse was prone to disappearing from any court function. She was never one for convention. Artanis could have played the role of a Noldor lady to perfection, had she not been swept off her feet by a Sinda lordling and married into Doriath. Idril was still so young. It was unthinkable to burden her with such heavy responsibilities. By the time Idril was judged ready for such duties, her father whisked her off to a secret place of safety with Irisse.

There were generous gifts from their allies – the finest furs, gems, and silks to be fashioned into stunning gowns and jewellery. There were offers of marriage made both from within their court and from their allies but all he declined. He was thankful Nolofinwe had seen fit to honour his wishes in that regard. Kano was not blind to his distress, though he could not understand it. His brother had fine leather boots and simple riding outfits made for him but stopped short of actual armour and weapons of war.

When he was granted permission to ride out from the safety of their fortress to hunt, it was not without a half dozen guards and servants ready to protect and attend to him. It was not fit that a princess spar with the guards in the training yard. Many a time he had wished to leave Hithlum to seek out Finrod in Nargothrond, or even the Feanorions. Some whispered that Finrod was a of a similar ilk as him and his betrothal with the fair Amarie was a sham by his grandmother to avoid scandal after he was caught dancing in his sister’s garments in Valmar. The Feanorions knew about his ‘problem’ and more importantly accepted him. Some claimed one of the Ambarussa was actually a Feanoriel but none had the foolhardiness to try verifying which. Irime could not care less if they were all biologically nieces.

However, he must remain to help shoulder the burden with Nolofinwe. It would be irresponsible to leave thus. Many nights they discussed plans into the dawn. There were fortifications to be made, reports to be read, plans… They had long guessed at the Enemy’s strength even as they built their own. What they both did know was that their strength was not enough. It would never be enough.

* * *

Their golden nephews Angrod and Aegnor fell defending the lands they were tasked with guarding. The Feanorions also suffered heavy losses, their lands overrun. He should have stopped him, but Nolofinwe had him locked in the study before he rode out. By the time he managed to pick the lock, it was too late to stop their king. Kano was gone.

Fingon ascended to the crown, as reluctant as he was. Nolofinwe’s eldest knew his duty. They had prepared him for this eventuality in the long years of the Siege. He took a wife from among elves of Mithrim, more as an ally than a soulmate. Fingon’s heart belonged to another.

Riliel was no shrinking maiden. She knew her duties as a queen and she was aware her husband’s nature. Perhaps she had more than a deep friendship with the female attendant who was her constant companion. The royal couple achieved a mutual respect and affection more akin to close friends than a wedded couple. Irime was glad to hand over the duties of Hithlum’s hostess to the new queen. The court had high hopes for children from them but how could there be any when the love the pair had was that of a brother and sister.

Fingon allowed him to train with the guardsmen in Hithlum. He even commissioned a suit of battle armour from the smiths for his dear aunt. He trained with both spear and shield, remembering that ice-bear he had fought on the ice so long ago. Kano had been so fearless in facing Morgoth alone. He would not fail his brother.

Fingon’s reign was to be far too brief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irime is slowly transitioning (for lack of a better word) to a fully male identity. Did I just write in a lavender marriage?


	3. Many Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another High King falls.

If there was one weakness his valiant nephew had, it was his dear Nelyo. They were far too weak, too few to stand against the Black Foe, but Nelyo was his father’s son, and he could be so persuasive. Perhaps if Nargothrond and Doriath could commit their forces, or Turgon his army from wherever he was secreted away… The swarthy Easterling he encountered in Maedhros’ camp unsettled him. There was something wrong about the man, and Irime was sure it was not just a prejudice against the Men of the East. He had got along well enough with Bor and his sons, sparring with them with staff and spear while his nephews were holding war council. He did not wish to draw attention to himself during the preparations. It was only after the rest of the leaders had left would he venture into the council tent and be briefed on the plans for the upcoming battle.

Rilel had insisted on joining her husband at the front. Their union was still childless despite the judicious use of certain herbs to inspire both ardour and fertility. She confessed to Irime that they had lain together in bed many nights chastely, since neither could be aroused to the act. The Noldor needed a Crown Prince, an heir, lest the crown went back to the Feanorions’ accursed line. No one had had heard from Turgon, and many believed him dead. Some whispered that the queen was barren and that Fingon should take a leaf from his grandfather and cast her aside for a more fertile wife. Irime was certain any wife Fingon took could only expect to gain a brother instead of a lover.

He kept to himself the best he could, but he had to speak with Nelyo. He stole towards the redhead’s tent under the cover of darkness, but hesitated when he spotted the High King, hooded and cloaked, entering it. Instead, he made his way to Maglor’s tent.

If Maglor was surprised to see him garbed as a common soldier, he did not show it. He only motioned for him to sit while he cleaned his sword with he same care as the did for his instruments so long ago in Aman.

“Beware that Easterling – not Bor – I sense something…” Irime whispered. Maglor nodded. Clearly he suspected something too.

“So how does our king fare? Is his wife with child?” his nephew asked.

“You know it is impossible…”

“Aye, he spends more time with my brother than his wife, and not just discussing battle-plans,” Maglor gave a tired grin.

It was good to see him smile, even if a little. Feanor’s Oath had eaten away at all that was good within his sons, Irime hated him for it. The younger sons were almost feral now, their eyes shone with a fey light, barely kept in check by their two elder brothers. Tyelkormo, who had written up a code of honourable huntsmanship in his youth, had cast aside his morals to try to force an unwilling maiden to be his wife. Curufinwe, who had prided himself on his skills as an artisan, had tried to overthrow his host, indirectly bringing about Finrod’s demise. Angband had tried to break Nelyo, but his nephew was strong like his sire. Scarred he may be, but he had not succumbed… perhaps he would be able to pull the Feanorions together…

“If Fingon dies, it will destroy Nelyo…” Maglor’s words would prove prophetic.

* * *

It was a rout. They would have been wiped out completely had it not been for the timely appearance of Turgon’s forces. Fingon had fallen in battle. His body trampled into the dirt. His wife-in-name had died too, slain when the orcs overran the healing tents where she and her companions had been tending the wounded. Their remaining allies scattered as their leaders fell or were decimated. Once Nelyo received news of Fingon’s death, Maglor took charge. The Feanorian forces had retreated to lick their wounds, the betrayal had come from within their ranks and it rankled. It was up to him to muster the tattered remnants of Fingon’s army. It was clear they could no longer hold Hithlum. He led them towards the coast.

The crown had passed as was proper, to Fingon’s brother Turgon, secreted away in his hidden city. Outside, the Noldor were leaderless. The Feanorians had the Feanorions, of course, as blighted by the Oath as they were. Irime trusted Nelyo might still be able to lead them, if not Maglor.

On reaching the coast, he was amused to hear the tales that had drifted there about who was the next heir to the Noldor crown. Some claimed Orodreth had a son as well as a daughter. Others claimed Fingon did manage to leave behind a son of his blood. Others claimed it was Finrod who had a son in Nargothrond.

For now, he bided his time, not drawing any undue attention to himself, training with the ellyn. Some of the older elves do recall a time when he wore dresses, but none had interest to draw attention to that. His days were better spent in training as a warrior given such dangerous times. The younger ones simply looked up to him as a mentor, eager to test their fledging skills against his and receive instruction on how to wield spear and sword.

_Gil-galad._

It started as a joke by the lads, naming him for his height and bright eyes. It stuck.

He could drink, spar, jest with the men. However, there were a few rare days when he was mercilessly reminded of his womanhood. Such days he would plead illness and spend in the privy as the blood flowed heavily. Everyone else believed he had a weak stomach.

It would figure that Cirdan would work things out. On an unfortunate day when the bloody cramps were extremely vicious, he found a small satchel of herbs left on his pallet, with written instructions on brewing a tea to ease the cramps for ellyth. Unfortunately, the tea left him drowsy, so he decided to soldier through the pain.

Once he had bled through his leggings, to the alarm of his fellow warriors, who thought he had been injured in their training. The healer, a stoic elleth, and simply shooed the gaggle of them out of the ward and dispensed that tea, followed by an informative but still awkward discussion on how to prevent such accidents. The healer was Silvan and their womenfolk did train as warriors alongside their men. The wad of linen down his pants might be uncomfortable, but if strategically placed…

Gil-galad, distant relation to the deceased High Kings of the Noldor. One need not be too clear on the exact relationship, Cirdan decided. The Noldor needed a leader outside, not one holed up Valar-knows-where. Turgon had a daughter, but no one knew if she would produce an heir for her father. Some whispered his sister had already provided him with a prince, whose father was not of Noldor stock.

He did take after his father Finwe in looks after all, as did his brother and nephew. It was with great relief he folded Irime Lalwen away into the pages of history. He set aside all his memories of Aman. As far as the world was to know, Gil-galad was born and raised in Beleriand. Gil-galad started training ostentatiously under Lord Cirdan in preparation for leadership. Cirdan treated him as a boy, as was his due, being as old as Finwe at least and possibly older.

* * *

One by one, the Elven realms fell, and refugees fled to the coast. Even Cirdan’s people were forced to flee for the Isle of Balar when Falas was finally overrun. He met Galadriel again after Doriath fell and she and her husband came to Balar from the Havens of Sirion. Doriath had fallen to Feanorion swords. It hurt him how far his nephews had fallen. He could not bring himself to grieve when he learnt that three of them were now in Mandos.

“I always knew you were a warrior, blessed by Lord Tulkas, Aunt. You were never content solely to serve his Lady Nessa,” Galadriel had remarked to him in private. That was the last his niece would refer to him as aunt.

It seemed a travesty that the Sindar was left with a two-year-old girl as their queen, after having the likes of Elu Thingol and his Maia wife as their leaders. Doriath was gone. News soon came that Gondolin had fallen due to treachery and the High King Turgon was dead. Idril did have a son, a half-elf son by the Secondborn Tuor. They named him Earendil. He was only seven.

Two half-elven children would be the leaders of the Havens of Sirion in name. They would be joined in marriage when they came of age and hopefully produce heirs of their own for both their people, Noldor and Sindar alike. Gil-galad had no desire to wear a crown, even though he thought it immensely unfair for the children to be saddled with this burden.

Cirdan visited the Havens often and took the young Earendil under his wing, teaching him all he knew of sailing and shipbuilding. Perhaps he had received his orders from Lord Ulmo. He declined to accompany Cirdan on these visits, despite the old elf’s urging.

There was no way he could reveal himself to Idril. She was pious Turgon’s daughter after all. Would she view him as an abomination against the Laws of the Valar? He remained on the isle of Balar, leaving his grandniece and her husband to lead at the Havens of Sirion. No doubt Idril believed him Uncle Fingon’s son. Letters were exchanged but she had no clue that Gil-galad had walked across Grinding Ice with her in his arms so long ago.

Idril’s sudden departure for Valinor was a surprise to everyone. He had been sure he would have worked up the courage to meet her as Gil-galad eventually. Now he could only pray Lord Ulmo would be merciful to her and her husband despite the Doom upon the Noldor.

It was too late that news arrived of the remaining Feanorions’ attack on the Havens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gil-galad is not sure how well Idril will take to her new Aunt Irime, so Gil-galad is staying away from the Havens and his remaining relatives there. Galadriel is astute enough to realize Gil-galad would be an asset more so than Aunt Irime.


	4. The Host of Valinor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The War of Wrath and end of an Age

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gil-galad is reluctantly thrust into the role of leader

“Would it have made a difference if I had been there?”

Cirdan only shrugged in reply as they scoured the smouldering ruins of the Havens. Earendil was at sea and had been for many moons. No telling when he would return, if ever. Of his wife and babes, there was no sign, though some elfling claimed she saw Lady Elwing turn into a bird. Lord Galdor confirmed that at least two of the Feanorions had died – the Ambarussa. Their brothers had lingered long enough to build a pyre some distance from the Havens. There was a mess of tracks of both men and beasts where the Feanorions had broken camp. Galdor fancied he spotted a child’s footprints, but he could not be sure with churned-up mud.

The dead of the Havens and the fallen Feanorians were cremated on pyres built from the singed timbers of the settlement. Gil-galad found a familiar-looking ring in the ruins of an abandoned house. It had once graced the finger of her youngest brother so long ago. He handed it to Galadriel when she arrived, a memento of the eldest brother she had lost and the father across the Sundering Sea. 

_Ereinion Gil-galad._

_Scion of Kings._

The waves seemed to murmur as he walked alone along the shore. Galadriel would not lead as queen of the Noldor, though he respected her as a leader in her own right. Cirdan was a leader, but never of the Noldor. The fate of Turgon’s grandson and great-grandsons remain unknown.

No one remembered whose son he was. Perhaps no one really cared. _Did it matter?_ They needed a figurehead to rally around. Someone tall with the light of the Trees in his eyes. Someone brave and clad in fine armour. A skilled warrior to defend his people in such dark times.

For a few cycles of the Sun, Gil-galad ruled in name as High King of the Noldor in Exile, save for the Feanorions. They never wrote to him, nor he see need to write to them after what transpired in Doriath and the Havens of Sirion.

* * *

It was a surprise when the Host arrived from Valinor, his cousin Ingwe and brother Arafinwe at their head. Earendil and Elwing had both survived and reached Valinor with their Silmaril. Gil-galad thought it best Earendil and his Silmaril were to remain in the sky. Feanaro’s gems had caused more than enough heartache already, and he sensed they were not done yet. Of the twin boys, there was no news – at least until a weary messenger-elf stumbled into the camp of the Host seeking the High King.

The boys still lived and were apparently thriving in the care of the Feanorions. Gil-galad was not quite sure what to make of that. No safe passage could be made for their return, not with so many roving orcs about.

It had been quite a shock for poor Arfin and Ingwe when they met him for the first time in council. Lord Eonwe only looked mildly amused. Arfin and Ingwe were green to battle, it fell to him to diplomatically steer them away from their more outlandish but ill-thought out plans. It was so awkward having them slip and refer to him as female. As for their Sindar allies, they thought him male and he did nothing to dissuade Lord Oropher and Lord Amdir of that notion. The Sindar were masters of hit-and-run skirmishing. They were ill at ease without the cover of their trees. A mounted charge into battle over open ground was alien to them. 

It was almost with relief that the Feanorions finally deigned to fight alongside the Host’s banner. They sent the boys ahead to Lord Cirdan on his Isle of Balar. A battlefield was no place for children, even as they stood on the cusp of their majority by Mannish standards. He could spar with Maglor or even Maedhros, knowing they would push him to his very limits. Cirdan, too, save his mentor was stuck babysitting Earendil’s twins, or should they be considered the Feanorions’ fosterlings? Arfin and Ingwe were too raw to be much of a challenge and too prone to holding back.

When the twins were deemed old enough, Cirdan brought them to meet their Valinorean kin in the camp. They were cocky adolescents then, who put Gil-galad in mind of his nephew Arakano in his reckless youth.

“Well-met, my… liege,” Elrond faltered. Elros only sniggered into his hand, earning himself a cuff to the head and a rebuke from his redhead foster-father. Maedhros grunted an apology and ushered his charges out of the tent so the High King might dress. They had chosen to call on him on the rare occasion he found privacy for a bath, unguarded. There was little to fear so deep in the camp.

A lightweight shirt did little to hide the obvious curves of his bosom. Had his hroa been fully male, perhaps they would have remained to converse with him as he dressed. Looking at the gangly pair, he was hard-pressed to imagine who they would become in the coming Ages.

_“When did you start considering yourself male?” Elrond would ask him many years later after one too many goblets of wine._

_“The question should be when everyone else start seeing me as a male,” the High King corrected. “I never really saw myself as female to begin with…”_

He had grown into his role as High King of the Exiles. The crown of High King of the Noldor in Aman still sat on his younger brother’s brow. There was some wrangling about whether Elros or Elrond should be High King instead as great-grandsons of his predecessor, but that was quickly forgotten when the twins managed to set a healing tent alight by accident. Surely, they were far too young.

If the Valar did take physical form and walk in Beleriand, Gil-galad was not blessed with meeting them. The only Maia he encountered was Lord Eonwe. He would meet others later in the Second Age.

* * *

Angband fell. Morgoth was cast into the Void. The Host of Valinor packed up for home as the crumbling remains of Beleriand slid into the Sea.

“Will you come with me, then? Home to amme and Findis?”

Arfin had pleaded. He had already asked his daughter to return with him. Galadriel declined, claiming her place was with her soulmate, Celeborn, who was not quite ready to depart these shores.

Gil-galad declined. He had fought and bled on this marred land. It was a part of him, the truer him.

Back in Valinor, he would have to be the obedient daughter to Lady Indis. He was done with that false life. Moreover, the Noldor who chose to remain in Endore needed his leadership. Lord Eonwe had offered the same Choice given to Earendil and Elwing to their sons. _Who was to say they would not choose the Path of Men?_

One of them would, going where no Eldar has gone since Luthien.

When the dust finally settled with Beleriand beneath the waves, he took his people and ventured eastwards to found a new city – Lindon. He swore he would be there for his people, as long as possible, Eru willing. Elrond went along as his herald, having chosen to be an Elf.

The Doom lifted, many of the Noldor who had left Valinor chose to return. Others who had found their soulmates from the elves of Endore or were born in Beleriand chose to remain. Of his father’s blood, only Galadriel, Elrond, and Celebrimbor remained on these shores. Perhaps Maglor still lived but no one could be sure he had not thrown himself into the waves with his stolen Silmaril as his brother had thrown himself into fire. The Eagles could attest to Maedhros’ death but they were silent on Maglor’s fate. Thorondor was horribly irked the redhead had chosen self-murder after all the trouble he and Fingon went to getting him off that cliff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this rounds up the First Age. Next chapter onwards will be the Second Age.


	5. My Liege

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A change of narrative from Elrond’s perspective. I tried writing from Gil-galad’s POV, but it does not really run well for the Second Age. Most of Gil-galad’s deeds are already written in the histories for that period, so I am just glossing over it.

Elrond Earendilion, some say Maglorion, did not ask for this job. Somehow it landed in his lap. Perhaps he should have followed his twin’s example and sailed off from these blighted shores. Gil-galad was, for all purposes, male, until it became necessary to stitch up a wound in an awkward part of his anatomy. Now he tried to focus on stitching up a ragged gash in the High King’s side. It was impossible to do so with the armour and bindings he normally hid his generous curves under.

“After all these years, and you still turn beetroot red…”

Elrond wondered if his decision in administering the sedating herb was a mistake. Gil-galad had volunteered to forgo it after all, but the wound was deep and painful. The herb tended to loosen his liege’s tongue. His voice would waver from his measured timbre into the range of decidedly girlish giggles. It was such a common herb used in the healing wards, ever since it was brought over from Numenor by Tar-Aldarion’s fleet. Most healers swore by it since it had few lasting ill-effects on their patients. Elrond had been serving as his king’s herald for a fair while by then.

Initially, Elrond had his reservations about the High King. _What good could come of living a lie?_ Then as he grew to know his king, he realized that Gil-galad was living his true life as the warrior king of the Noldor in Exile. The lie had always been Lady Lalwen, who most believed had sailed back with her brother at the end of the First Age, if not called to Mandos during the chaos of the Battle of Unnumbered Tears.

As a leader, Elrond could not fault him. He did not envy him his rank. Elrond knew he was the next in the line of succession, and that same burden would land on his shoulders should his liege meet with mischance.

It took some getting used to, but so long as he refrained from referring to or worse, treating Gil-galad as a weak female, they managed to bump along just fine. Elrond thought of him as another big brother, ready to give him advice when needed. Erestor, his tutor, would remind him that not all ellyth are weak, pointing out shining examples like Galadriel and Grandmother Idril.

Life was good to him, between the patrols and skirmishes with orcs and creatures of Shadow that remained. Lindon had an extensive library, which Gil-galad encouraged him to make use of. He was also encouraged to study under the healers in the House of Healing. There were painfully awkward diplomatic banquets and the like with representatives of the Sindar, Eregion, Dwarves, and Numenoreans. After such court functions, it was common for Gil-galad to discuss their guests and their agendas with Elrond.

“Do you think Lady Galadriel will make good on her threat to leave Eregion?”

“What do you make of Tar-Ancalime’s decision to cut back on the expeditions?”

Some nights, the topic would turn to Elrond’s rather complicated family.

“I hear whispers of a mysterious singer along the shore to the north. Do you suppose it could be Makalaure?”

* * *

There was that very confusing time during the reign of the Second Ruling Queen when Elrond could have sworn that his liege was developing feelings for his Numenorean counterpart. Letters flew fast and furious, but not as rapidly as court gossip. Elrond had feared than that their seemingly mutual infatuation would grow out of control. There was even talk of both sovereigns meeting in person. Fortunately, Gil-galad’s common sense won out and Tar-Telperien’s delicate health made travel to Middle-earth unthinkable for her.

“I think I would have been a disappointment to her, don’t you?” Gil-galad remarked wryly as he caressed a miniature portrait of the lady. King and healer had then discussed whether a medical procedure was possible to change a person’s gender. Elrond pointed out that though Haradrim eunuchs were castrated avoid them siring offspring, it did not render them female. And no, he was not going to even try wrapping his brain around what processes are needed to turn a female into a male. There was a reason why they gelded their young colt, boars, and tomcats to control their populations instead of meddling with the females. 

Still, the Numenoreans sent them aid when Sauron launched his attack on Middle-earth after a long hiatus. Poor Celebrimbor had fallen for Sauron’s tricks entirely and paid dearly for it. Elrond wondered if Maglor knew of his nephew’s demise. He swore he heard a lamenting in the wind as they retreated but it might be only his imagination.

* * *

By the time Elrond was set up in Imladris on his liege’s orders, Gil-galad had assembled around himself an inner circle of trusted servants and friends ready to guard his secret with their lives if need be. There was a Silvan healer who took over from Elrond. He was also well-versed in feminine complaints such that many of the noble ellyth in Lindon approached him for medical aid. It would not be unusual for him to keep at hand a stock of herbs to ease their womanly discomforts. Likewise, there were a pair of discreet sisters who tended to the king’s linens, and a valet who did not bat an eyelid when binding up his master’s chest every morning.

Likewise, there were a few nobles who knew of Gil-galad’s true gender but never saw it as anything worth mentioning. Those who had no idea often tried pairing him with their daughters or sisters, much to the silent amusement of those in the know. The title of Queen of the Noldor in Exile was destined to sit empty. There was one rather unfortunate period during Elrond’s herald-ship where he was romantically linked to the king by idle rumourmongers. The rumours petered out when he started paying court to Celebrian with Gil-galad’s encouragement. The gossip then shifted to the disapproval of Celebrian’s parents to the relationship. 

“If I should ever fall in battle, just put me in the ground or a pyre as I am,” Gil-galad had sought him out alone on the eve of their march on Barad-dur. “No washing or redressing me in any finery please…”

“You know that they would want a fine funeral for you,” Elrond had replied.

“Then I pray to Lord Tulkas that they will let me be laid to rest in my armour, at the very least. Or you, Elrond, will have to field any awkward questions from the rest of the court, and maybe Elendil’s people as well.”

They had not known that Gil-galad’s words would prove prophetic.

* * *

_Fourth Age, Valinor_

“He had a row, you know, with Lord Namo when he was offered re-embodiment in the Third Age. The Valar wanted to send him back as Lalwen,” Elrond’s many-times over grandfather, Nolofinwe explained. He had recently returned to Tirion after a long hiatus in the countryside. 

“So he is not yet back?” Elrond asked, trying to keep the disappointment from his voice. He had been looking forward to meeting his former liege.

“Well, Lord Namo called in the rest of the Valar to weigh in on what exactly they needed to fix since most elves are returned in the bodies they died in, minus the wounds and scars, of course. Seems that there were other similar cases but none as vocal as Gil-galad. I mean, Finrod was fine returning with as a male, even if he has been seen wearing female garb in public and now insists on being addressed as Lady Finrod,” Nolofinwe shook his head. Perhaps Finrod should have been more stubborn.

Lady Amarie had finally petitioned for an end to their union after her husband’s latest antics at his father’s banquet. It was the latest scandal to rock the Noldor royal house after Fingon publicly pledged his undying love for his Feanorion cousin Maedhros, who was unfortunately not present to return the sentiment.

“Lord Irmo argued it was a fea-scar gained in Beleriand but Lady Nienna insisted the scar was already present when he was an elfling. They even interviewed those of us still in Mandos who knew him. Then they said they needed to discuss this with their father whether his fea or hroa was the one marred. If no agreement can be reached, they will wait until the Second Music…” 

“So he is still in Mandos, is he?” Elrond waved aside an offer to refill his goblet. _And will likely remain there until the Second Music._

“Not anymore! Took some time but the Valar finally reached a decision. Sorry I couldn’t come sooner, but a new body needs some getting used to. Amme had a fit of vapours when she found out and had to go to Lorien. Good Findis is outraged, not that I care…”

A voice boomed out as its owner strode into the room. As was the current fashion in Avallone, he wore his shirt open to reveal a flat chest. “Elrond, I’m so proud of you! Well done, my lad.”

A smiling Gil-galad hugged both his brother and his distant nephew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mixed feelings about whether to return Maglor to the field but given nothing was written about him in the official histories after the First Age, he probably died or faded. Also wondered if Gil-galad should be returned in Valinor as a male, female, or remain in Mandos until the Second Music on grounds that only in Arda Remade will he get a body that matches his gender identity.


End file.
